Lady Ferry

"Lady Ferry" is a novella by Sarah Orne Jewett that explores themes of love, loss, and the passage of time through the lens of a small New England community. The story revolves around the character of Lady Ferry, a former belle who grapples with her past while navigating the complexities of her relationships. Jewett's lyrical prose immerses readers in the rich imagery of the setting, highlighting the connection between personal history and the natural world. The work is a poignant reflection on the enduring impacts of memory and the deep-seated ties of community.

• Short story

								
We have an instinctive fear of death; yet we have a horror of a life
prolonged far beyond the average limit: it is sorrowful; it is
pitiful; it has no attractions.

This world is only a schoolroom for the larger life of the next. Some
leave it early, and some late: some linger long after they seem to
have learned all its lessons. This world is no heaven: its pleasures
do not last even through our little lifetimes.

There are many fables of endless life, which in all ages have caught
the attention of men; we are familiar with the stories of the old
patriarchs who lived their hundreds of years: but one thinks of them
wearily, and without envy.

-----

When I was a child, it was necessary that my father and mother should
take a long sea-voyage. I never had been separated from them before;
but at this time they thought it best to leave me behind, as I was not
strong, and the life on board ship did not suit me. When I was told of
this decision, I was very sorry, and at once thought I should be
miserable without my mother; besides, I pitied myself exceedingly for
losing the sights I had hoped to see in the country which they were to
visit. I had an uncontrollable dislike to being sent to school, having
in some way been frightened by a maid of my mother's, who had put many
ideas and aversions into my head which I was many years in outgrowing.
Having dreaded this possibility, it was a great relief to know that I
was not to be sent to school at all, but to be put under the charge of
two elderly cousins of my father,--a gentleman and his wife whom I had
once seen, and liked dearly. I knew that their home was at a fine
old-fashioned country-place, far from town, and close beside a river,
and I was pleased with this prospect, and at once began to make
charming plans for the new life.

I had lived always with grown people, and seldom had had any thing to
do with children. I was very small for my age, and a strange mixture
of childishness and maturity; and, having the appearance of being
absorbed in my own affairs, no one ever noticed me much, or seemed to
think it better that I should not listen to the conversation. In spite
of considerable curiosity, I followed an instinct which directed me
never to ask questions at these times: so I often heard stray
sentences which puzzled me, and which really would have been made
simple and commonplace at once, if I had only asked their meaning. I
was, for the most of the time, in a world of my own. I had a great
deal of imagination, and was always telling myself stories; and my
mind was adrift in these so much, that my real absent-mindedness was
mistaken for childish unconcern. Yet I was a thoroughly simple,
unaffected child. My dreams and thoughtfulness gave me a certain tact
and perception unusual in a child; but my pleasures were as deep in
simple things as heart could wish.

It happened that our cousin Matthew was to come to the city on
business the week that the ship was to sail, and that I could stay
with my father and mother to the very last day, and then go home with
him. This was much pleasanter than leaving sooner under the care of an
utter stranger, as was at first planned. My cousin Agnes wrote a kind
letter about my coming which seemed to give her much pleasure. She
remembered me very well, and sent me a message which made me feel of
consequence; and I was delighted with the plan of making her so long a
visit.

One evening I was reading a story-book, and I heard my father say in
an undertone, "How long has madam been at the ferry this last time?
Eight or ten years, has she not? I suppose she is there yet?"--"Oh,
yes!" said my mother, "or Agnes would have told us. She spoke of her
in the last letter you had, while we were in Sweden."

"I should think she would be glad to have a home at last, after her
years of wandering about. Not that I should be surprised now to hear
that she had disappeared again. When I was staying there while I was
young, we thought she had drowned herself, and even had the men search
for her along the shore of the river; but after a time cousin Matthew
heard of her alive and well in Salem; and I believe she appeared again
this last time as suddenly as she went away."

"I suppose she will never die," said my mother gravely. "She must be
terribly old," said my father. "When I saw her last, she had scarcely
changed at all from the way she looked when I was a boy. She is even
more quiet and gentle than she used to be. There is no danger that the
child will have any fear of her; do you think so?"--"Oh, no! but I
think I will tell her that madam is a very old woman, and that I hope
she will be very kind, and try not to annoy her; and that she must not
be frightened at her strange notions. I doubt if she knows what
craziness is."--"She would be wise if she could define it," said my
father with a smile. "Perhaps we had better say nothing about the old
lady. It is probable that she stays altogether in her own room, and
that the child will rarely see her. I never have realized until lately
the horror of such a long life as hers, living on and on, with one's
friends gone long ago: such an endless life in this world!"

Then there was a mysterious old person living at the ferry, and there
was a question whether I would not be "afraid" of her. She "had not
changed" since my father was a boy: "it was horrible to have one's
life endless in this world!"

The days went quickly by. My mother, who was somewhat of an invalid,
grew sad as the time drew near for saying good-by to me, and was more
tender and kind than ever before, and more indulgent of every wish and
fancy of mine. We had been together all my life, and now it was to be
long months before she could possibly see my face again, and perhaps
she was leaving me forever. Her time was all spent, I believe, in
thoughts for me, and in making arrangements for my comfort. I did see
my mother again; but the tears fill my eyes when I think how dear we
became to each other before that first parting, and with what a
lingering, loving touch, she herself packed my boxes, and made sure,
over and over again, that I had whatever I should need; and I remember
how close she used to hold me when I sat in her lap in the evening,
saying that she was afraid I should have grown too large to be held
when she came back again. We had more to say to each other than ever
before, and I think, until then, that my mother never had suspected
how much I observed of life and of older people in a certain way; that
I was something more than a little child who went from one interest to
another carelessly. I have known since that my mother's childhood was
much like mine. She, however, was timid, while I had inherited from my
father his fearlessness, and lack of suspicion; and these qualities,
like a fresh wind, swept away any cobwebs of nervous anticipation and
sensitiveness. Every one was kind to me, partly, I think because I

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes